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Tuesday, April 24, 2012

‘Kalaki,’
said the judge sternly, ‘you are faced with a charge of obtaining employment
with a fake certificate. What do you have to say for yourself?’

‘My
Lord,’ I pleaded, ‘how was I to know it was fake? It was handed to me by the Yunza
Chancellor himself at a public Graduation Ceremony in front of thousands of
graduates and their relatives.’

‘But
you Kalaki,’ said the judge sternly, ‘you obviously knew very well that you had
miserably failed your exams in Physical Statistics.’

‘Of
course I knew that, My Lord. But my degree certificate said that I had obtained
a degree in Political Satire.’

‘Surely
it much have occurred you, Kalaki, that you were the unfortunate victim of a
typographical error, and that you should have owned up?’

‘On
the contrary,’ I explained, ‘my respect for our highest institution of learning
was such that it never occurred to me that an entire senate of learned academics
could make such an elementary blunder.’

‘But
did you not notice that your certificate said Political Satire instead of Physical
Statistics?’

‘Indeed
I did, My Lord. And I was much pleased and flattered that Yunza had finally recognized
my imaginative sense of humour in the subversive messages I had written on
every available wall during my five years of secret nocturnal campus roaming.’

‘You
imagined,’ scoffed the judge, ‘that you had been conferred with a degree for
writing filthy graffiti on lavatory walls?’

‘My
Lord,’ I protested, ‘you have given a most unsympathetic description of my hard
work at Yunza, ever busy fomenting an exciting counter-culture. And how could I
doubt my success when I received a degree in Political Satire from none other
than the Chancellor, who personally congratulated me.’

The
judge looked genuinely puzzled. ‘So you were now really persuaded that you
could write Political Satire?’

‘At
that time I had the highest respect for Yunza,’ I replied firmly, ‘and they had
declared me qualified in Political Satire with
First Class Honors!’

‘Kalaki,’
said the judge sternly, ‘I have seen the offending certificate, and I suggest
to you that the words to which you refer actually read First Class Horrors!’

‘My
Lord,’ I said, ‘I fear you must have slightly misread the rather difficult
gothic script.’

The
judge now put his head in his hands and sighed. ‘So you now went out into world
with your new certificate, looking for a job.’

‘That’s
right My Lord. But this was during the One Party State, when the profession of Political
Satire was entirely banned, along with Terrorism, Bomb Making and Having an
Opinion. For twenty years I was entirely unemployed.’

‘And
did you write satire during this period?’

‘Certainly
not. As a university graduate I now needed a large salary before doing any
work.’

‘But
finally you went to the new Boast
Newspaper and showed them your certificate?’

‘Yes.
And they employed me immediately as a political satirist because they have
great respect for university certificates.’

‘But
then,’ said the judge, ‘came the fateful day, twenty years later, when a letter
came from Yunza saying that your certificate was erroneous.’

‘Yes,
My Lord,’ I replied, wiping a tear from my face. ‘The letter explained that the
clerical officer who wrote my certificate was illiterate, and that he had
obtained his job with a fake certificate. He had confessed the whole thing on
his deathbed, forty years later.’

‘So
you were fired,’ said the judge.

‘Yes.
The editor was furious, saying that the fake certificate had deceived him into
thinking I was writing satire, when I had actually been writing rubbish.’

‘Kalaki,
you’re just a fake, and you know it!’

I
leant towards him from the dock and looked at him sternly. ‘Because of this
fake clerical officer, half the graduates in this country are fake. That’s why
the country is in such a mess!’

‘It’s
you that’s before this court,’ retorted the judge, ‘so don’t concern yourself
with the others. Normally, in a case like this, I would send you back to Yunza
to do your degree properly.’

‘But
in my case?’

‘In
your case, investigations show that you got into Yunza on a fake Form 5 certificate,
in the name of Kalaliki instead of Kalaki. So I should send you back to
Luanshya Secondary School to repeat your Form V.’

‘But
in my case?’

‘In
your case, records show a discrepancy between your actual Grade VII results and
the marks on your secondary school entry form. In the normal course of events,
I should send you back to Grade I at Mpatumatu Primary School.’

‘But
in my case?’ I asked hopefully.

‘In
your case, Kalaki,’ said the judge in a kindly voice, ‘since you have just been
appointed the New Minister for Certification, I find you not guilty!’

Now
the whole courtroom burst into applause and cheers, prompting more cheers from
the theatre audience. As the actors all lined up to bow to the audience, our
director Stewart Crehan came on stage and bowed, to more applause.

A
young woman now walked out from the wings and stood centre stage. Stewart put
his arm affectionately round her shoulder and looked towards the audience,
saying ‘Kulenga Mapwepwe would have liked to have written this play, but unfortunately
she wasn’t qualified because she didn’t have a certificate!’

Tuesday, April 17, 2012

‘Come
and sit down, Kalaki,’ she said, as she stood up from her desk, shook my hand,
and pointed me in the direction of a plush green leather armchair. Then she hobbled
towards her well-stocked cocktail cabinet. ‘What can I get you to drink? I know
you like a drop of brandy.’

‘A
double Klipdrift would do me fine,’ I replied.

‘We
can do better than that in the minister’s office,’ she cackled. ‘How about a double
liqueur cognac? I’ve got a lovely twelve-year old Marie Antoinette here, how
about that?’

‘That’ll
do fine,’ I admitted.

I
was in the office of the Minister for Controlling the Poor, the dreaded
Professor Clueless Cluo, a little wrinkled old woman, about four feet tall, but
precariously balanced on a pair of six
inch high heels and wearing a miniskirt.

She
came back with the bottle and two elegant cut glass tumblers, put them on the
walnut coffee table, and settled herself into the other armchair. ‘Well,
Kalaki,’ she said, ‘are you still trying to see the funny side of life?’

‘Is
there any other side?’ I laughed. ‘Take that nice big bottle of Marie
Antoinette, for example. How can it be legal to sell a large amount of brandy
in a big bottle, but illegal to sell a small amount in a little plastic sachet?’

‘Of
course,’ I said. ‘As the President-for-Life of the Zambia National Union of
Brandy Drinkers, I am very concerned that this constitutes an attack on the
poorer members of our great union, which has always stood for One Zambia One
Drinker.’

‘My
dear Kalaki,’ she sighed, ‘you’re way out of date. Times have changed since
independence. Nowadays, we who are privileged to rule have a duty to control the
terrible excesses of the lower classes.’

‘You
mean the working class?’

‘Much
lower than that,’ she said, as she took another swig of her cognac. ‘They drink
so much that they can’t work.’

‘I
rather thought,’ I said, ‘that they drink because they can’t find work. It
gives them something else to do.’

‘Don’t
be silly,’ she laughed. ‘There’s plenty of work, but they can’t do it because
they’re always drunk. That’s why we’re having to bring in the Chinese.’

‘Half
a minute,’ I said. ‘Let’s get back to my original point. There has to be some
consistency in the law. According to the law, neither selling alcohol nor
drinking alcohol is illegal. So how can it be an offence to sell a small amount
in a sachet, but not an offence to sell a large amount in a bottle. Surely the
larger amount is more dangerous?’

‘You’ve
missed the point as usual,’ laughed Clueless Cluo. ‘The lower classes can’t
afford a big bottle for twenty-five pin, so they have to buy small sachets at
one pin each.’

‘So
banning tujilijili will keep the lower classes sober?’

‘Exactly,’
she replied. ‘Help yourself to another drop of Marie Antoinette.’

‘Thanks,’
I said, as I refilled my glass. ‘But your policy still allows the ruling class
to get drunk, and mess up the country horribly!’

‘We who are privileged to govern,’ explained Clueless Cluo, ‘are of course more educated and civilized than
the lower classes. We know how to control our drinking. Besides, we don’t have
to work with our hands or control machines, so it doesn’t matter if we’re not
completely sober.’

‘The
work of the upper class is just to sit and think,’ I suggested.

‘Exactly,’
she agreed. ‘We have to think how to control the poor and improve their miserable
lives. And such elevated thinking needs imagination, which is much improved by
a drop of brandy. In fact, it was only after drinking a full bottle of cognac
that I came up with the marvelous idea of banning tujilijili.’ So saying, she
tottered over to the cocktail cabinet to fetch another bottle of Marie
Antoinette.

‘But
you seem to have changed your party policy,’ I said. ‘During the election
campaign you were giving tujilijili to the unemployed so that they would vote
for you.’

‘Obviously
we couldn’t give them jobs before we got into government, so instead we had to
give them tujilijili to keep them happy.’

‘But
now you’re in government, you still haven’t given them jobs.’

‘Don’t
be dull, Kalaki. I’ve already told you that we have to get them off the
tujilijili before they can be fit for employment. Nobody wants to employ a
drunk.’

‘I
know what you mean,’ I said sadly, as I took another gulp of the excellent
Marie Antoinette.

But
all the time we had been talking there was a growing noise outside, and
suddenly the Impermanent Secretary appeared in the doorway, bowing and clapping
his hands. ‘Please, Honourable Professor Doctor Madam Minister Sah, there’s a
mob at the gate!’

‘What’s
wrong with them this time?’ she shouted.

‘Madam,
they say they’ve got no tujilijili!’

‘Send
in the police to sort them out!’ ordered the minister.

‘Please
Honorable Professor Minister,’ he whined, ‘it was the police who confiscated
all the tujilijili, so now they’re all drunk!’

Clueless
Cluo staggered unsteadily to the window, and raised her glass of cognac in the direction of the distant protestors. ‘No tujilijili? she
asked sarcastically, ‘then why don't they take Marie Antoinette!’ So saying, she fell off her high
heels, flat on the floor. Out cold.

I
turned to the Impermanent Secretary. ‘Splendid idea!’ I said. ‘Go and deliver
Marie Antoinette to the crowd!’

Tuesday, April 10, 2012

‘I
think,’ I said, scratching my head, ‘that God has set a definite date when He’s
coming to get you. So if you die sooner, or even later, your death must be
untimely.’

‘I
don’t think that’s possible,’ she retorted. ‘You’re suggesting that the departed
person has managed to defy God’s will, and has managed to change the
pre-ordained date of departure. That just ain’t possible, because God is all
knowing and all powerful.’

‘Well,’
I said, ‘I would agree that such a thing is extremely improbable, but it’s not
entirely impossible. Perhaps you have never heard of the strange untimely death
of King Umpire in Malabwe.’

‘Umpire!’
laughed Thoko. ‘Was he a referee?’

‘Any
good king has to be a good umpire,’ I explained. ‘Every country always has different
opposing parties, such as the Ups and the Downs, the North and the South, the
Capitalists and the Workers, the Thinkers and the Bonkers. A king has to be the Umpire, so he can mediate between the two sides, get them all to work
together for everybody’s general benefit, in order to achieve One Malabwe One
Nation.’

‘So
did the people say King Umpire’s death was untimely because he died before he
had finished his good work?’

‘Oh
no, they definitely never said anything like that. You see the problem with him
was that, although he worked for many years as a good Umpire, in the end he got
corrupted.’

‘It
was more horrific than that,’ I said sadly. ‘Umpire turned into a Vampire!’

‘On
no!’ squealed Thoko. ‘How did that happen?’

‘It
happened because he had surrounded himself with bootlickers, sychophants and
praise singers. So one day his personal sangoma said to him, O King, you are such a wise Umpire, you must
rule Malabwe for ever! Now the king, who had an exceptionally high regard
for his own abilities, replied Of course
you are right, I only wish I could, but it is not possible.

‘The
sangoma didn’t reply. But he knew different. He knew that the secret of
everlasting life was to drink human blood.

‘That
night a beautiful young woman slipped into the king’s bedroom, and she wasn’t
wearing much, except a very nice smile.’

‘Oh
dear,’ said Thoko, ‘she was a vampire.’

‘Exactly,’
I said. ‘And so the king also became a vampire, and developed a terrible thirst
for human blood.’

‘But
on the other hand,’ Thoko pointed out, ‘if he lived forever he could also rule
forever, and the Malabwian people would always be happy with his wise rule!’

‘It
wasn’t as simple as that,’ I explained. ‘In the daytime he remained the wise
King Umpire, but during the night he became the terrible King Vampire. During
the day he smiled and cut ribbons, laid foundations stones and inspected guards
of honour. But at night he prowled the shadows of the back streets, waiting to
pounce on innocent virgins, sinking his long incisor teeth into their jugular veins,
and sucking the blood out of them.’

‘So
now he wasn’t so popular?’

‘The
people soon found out that there were two kings – the Wise Umpire and the
Thirsty Vampire. The first was working for the people, but the second was
sucking their blood. Things went seriously wrong when the king tried to suck
the blood out of the American ambassador. All the donors fled, and the king was
left with insufficient money to run the country.’

‘So
hadn’t the king now passed his sell-by date?’ wondered Thoko. ‘What had
happened to God’s pre-ordained date for his departure?’

‘Tut
tut,’ I said. ‘Doesn’t your mother send you to church to understand these
things? The king was now outside God’s control. He had joined the Devil so that
he could live forever. But as the life of the king was getting longer and
longer, the life of the people was getting shorter and shorter. His blood
supply was running out.’

‘So
did the people rise against his bloody government?’

‘When
they went to protest in Uhuru Square, the Vampire King sent his police with
their guns. There was such a bloodbath that the king and all his ministers,
parasites, bloodsuckers and vampires had a very good feast.’

‘Couldn’t
anybody stop him?’ asked Thoko

‘The
country could only be saved by Princess Wobbly Juicy, because she was the only
member of the royal household who had not become a vampire.’

‘How
had she managed to protect herself?’

‘She
was so fat that the king couldn’t find any of her veins. She managed to escape
from the palace, and went on a long journey to plead with the famous Prophet
Tuberculosis, popularly known as TB. Her mission was successful, for he immediately
predicted a miracle within 60 days.’

‘You
mean death within sixty days.’

‘Exactly.
And sure enough, at mid-day on the fifty-ninth day, as the king was sleeping
peacefully in his coffin, a flash of lightening struck the palace, breaking the
roof beams into many large splinters. One of these splinters went straight
through the heart of the king. And that, of course, is the only way to kill a
vampire.’

‘So
was that an untimely death?’ asked Thoko.

‘Of
course it was! Most untimely! A vampire is supposed to live forever! But King
Vampire died very young, at the age of only eighty-eight!’

Tuesday, April 3, 2012

‘So
from your point of view,’ I said, ‘All this talk about Michael’s health was
just the idle chatter of the unemployed?’

‘Politics,’
explained Christine, ‘is for politicians. We have a parliament for idle
chatter, where politicians chatter on behalf of everybody else, so that the
remainder of the country can get on with their work and shut up.’

‘Or
at least not talk about Michael!’

‘Exactly.’

‘But
tell me, why did Michael go to India? Was it for medical treatment?’

‘Of
course not. He went there to look for investors, to give work to the
unemployed, in order to stop them chattering, so that he can have some peace.’

‘Even
so,’ I said. ‘If he was looking for investors, why did he spend so much time at
Gujarat Central Hospital?’

‘Look,
Kalaki, what do you know about finding investors? If you were looking for investors, where would
you go?’

‘An
investment bank in New Delhi?’

‘There
you are!’ she laughed, as she poured me another cup of tea. ‘See how little you
know! Investors don’t sit in offices! Nowadays they are so rich and decadent
that they spend most of their time in hospital, recovering from the diseases of
affluence such as obesity, high blood pressure, or the more exotic forms of
sexually transmitted diseases. They are using their vast wealth to linger on,
far beyond their allotted lifespan, because they know that when they die they will
surely to go to Hell.’

‘But
why Gujarat Central Hospital?’

‘Because
it specializes in the diseases of dying and stinking capitalism. It is reckoned
that Gujarat Central Hospital has the world’s highest concentration of
capitalists per square metre.’

‘But
Dotty Scotty told parliament that Michael had gone to India on a private visit,
for a holiday.’

‘Of
course there was that too,’ agreed Christine. ‘Perhaps you don’t realize,
Kalaki, that a hospital is a grand place for a holiday. The air is clean and
free of germs, and you can jog up and down the corridors which run for miles. And
Gujuarat Central Hospital has a swimming pool, gymnasium, massage parlour,
several restaurants and cinemas, and so on.’

‘So
Michael had plenty of time to relax?’

‘Well,
you know Michael, he can’t relax. He soon found that there were many heads of state
living in Gujarat Central. Before long he was fixing up international trade deals,
to import water from Bangladesh, export slave labour to the Siberian salt
mines, and so on.’

‘Good
gracious!’ I exclaimed. ‘What were these heads of state doing there?’

‘Many
of them were recovering from bullet wounds, or taking refuge from the
International Criminal Court, or merely taking a holiday from the suffocating
love of their grateful citizens. Others were having secret treatment because
they didn’t want to admit that they were sick.’

‘Good
gracious,’ I said, ‘I hadn’t thought of that. So with all these eminent people
to meet, Michael must have had a marvelous time.’

‘Ever
busy, my Michael,’ replied Christine, proudly. ‘When he saw how many Zambian
doctors were working at the Gujarat Central, he gathered them all into the
medical lecture theatre and gave them a little pep talk, telling them what they
could expect if they ever came back home to Zambia.’

‘What
did he tell them?’

‘He
told that he had been forced to travel all the way to Gujarat to seek medical
attention because they had run away from their own country. They had deserted
sick Zambians at home in order to attend to the health of foreigners, which was
treachery, and that if they ever came home they would be charged with treason.’

‘Ah
yes,’ I said. ‘Our friend Michael is such an honest person. Whatever comes into
his head, he will say it, just like that!’

‘And
he has such a marvelous imagination,’ she said proudly. ‘He has been thinking
about the problem of bringing back these doctors to Zambia, and he’s going to
make an announcement this afternoon. He’s decided to reshuffle Gujarat Province
to Zambia, in exchange for Western Province, which will go to India. This will
solve our doctor shortage and the Barotse problem at a stroke.’

‘Brilliant,’
I agreed. ‘The Zambian doctors can come home, and the Barotse can break away,
so everybody will be happy!’

‘Yes,’
said Christine. ‘Michael’s such an agreeable fellow, very easy to get along
with.’

Just
then Michael put his head round the door. ‘I’m off to reshuffle a few
provinces, see you later!’ Then he noticed me. ‘Hullo Kalaki,’ he said. ‘I
thought you were dead.’

‘How
did the operation go?’ I asked.

‘Complete
success,’ he replied, as he disappeared from sight.

‘The
operation to find new investors,’ Christine explained, ‘was a great success.’

‘I
must be off,’ I said, as I stood up and put my notebook in my pocket. We shook
hands, and I gave her a little kiss on each cheek. ‘What’s it like, being the
First Lady?’

‘It’s
just a title,’ she laughed, ‘there’s no job!’

‘Never
mind,’ I said, ‘I've enjoyed having a bit of idle chatter with one of the
unemployed.’